Best Man (and a Friend of the Bride)
by ForASecondThereWe'dWon
Summary: Peter might be in the wedding party, but he doesn't want a relationship of his own. He will LITERALLY run away to avoid the mere possibility. But running from one thing means running toward something else, even if it's just a clichéd wedding hook-up. (It's not.)


**Author's Note:**

Based on the Tumblr prompt: 33. "I'm gonna fuck you so hard that you forget you ever even met that asshole."

* * *

Peter escaped the banquet hall at a near-run while the guests were still applauding Betty and Ned's first dance. After the newlyweds had burst into the room not long before, Ned had broken away to give Peter an important heads-up: that Ned's mom had informed all of his cousins that the Best Man was single and they were just waiting until the dancing to pounce. It freaked Peter out to know that a bunch of strangers had been checking him out while he stood at the head of the aisle, clapping his best friend supportively on the shoulder as the music cued Betty's entrance.

Even in the face of matrimony (and it _had_ been right in Peter's face for the better part of two years as he fulfilled his role as Best Man), it wasn't that Peter was a commitment-phobe, some sort of serial one-night-stand-er. He simply wasn't in a rush to marry young. Plus, he was trying to keep his wits about him today of all days; May had warned that people could get a little nuts at weddings, what with the atmosphere of romantic gravitas thicker than the icing on the big white cake. She was probably back there right now, trying to intercept Ned's eager cousins to give Peter a head start.

As he moved away down the corridor towards the front of the hotel, the thud of pop-y bass transitioned into the tones of two people attempting to keep an argument quiet. Up ahead, a dark-haired man crossed out of a room and pushed angrily through the front doors. They didn't slam, which took some of the effect out of it.

Peter wondered if he should turn back, but if the other arguer came this way, it would look like he was trying to slink away after eavesdropping. He would just... be casual and slip right past.

Except, when he was passing the room the fight had occurred in, the other person, a woman his age, walked out. He grabbed her shoulders instinctively before she could run into him.

"I didn't mean to scare you," Peter told her surprised expression, belatedly releasing her.

"Oh, this?" she asked, circling her face with a finger. "It's not fear, it's relief. I thought you were Brad storming back in for round two."

He could guess, but it would be better to ask.

"Brad?"

"My..." The woman paused. "..._ex_-boyfriend."

Peter noticed a few tears overflowing her brimming eyes and patted his pants for a Kleenex, coming up empty. Damn, he remembered feeling one when he stuffed his tie into the same pocket after the ceremony.

"Sorry," he said, meaning it, "I think I had a tissue in my jacket, but I left it in the... in the room."

'Banquet hall' was not coming to him as she gave an unconcerned shrug and tossed her loosely braided hair over her shoulder before catching him head-on with brown eyes that were even more brilliant for their shininess. She made do by swiping away the fullest tears and patting beneath her eyes with her thumbs.

"I'm fine," she said and he felt bad for not asking.

While she sniffled and angled her head back to keep any remaining tears at bay, Peter glanced down, taking in the length of her dark copper dress. It would probably photograph stunningly outside, against all those red and gold leaves on the trees lining the hotel's drive. _Damn_ Ned for dragging him into the wedding photographer conversation. Everywhere Peter looked at this place, he saw lighting opportunities and reflections of the couple's autumnal colour scheme. Stupid scenic, postcard-town venue. He looked quickly back up to the woman's face, which was now more composed.

"I'm Peter." He cleared his throat. "By the way."

She nodded and said, "MJ. Betty's mentioned you."

"So you're... bride's side?" That term came to him.

"Oh yeah, she and I go way back, or as far as you can go back when people get married in their early twenties."

"Right." Peter laughed. "Me and Ned too." But the small talk was bothering him. He met MJ's eyes seriously. "I'm sorry, but I really need to know what the fuck that guy's problem was."

She laughed in what looked like surprise.

"How do you know _I_ didn't cause the problem?"

"Did you?" he asked to humour her.

MJ shrugged, appearing genuinely thoughtful.

"Sort of. You want details?"

"Nah, it's none of my business." He was just quietly pissed off that some dick could breeze out and leave this woman crying. At a _wedding_. This was, like, the exact opposite of what May had warned him about. No romance in sight.

She leaned sideways into the wall, crossed her arms, and sighed. He copied her, minus the sigh.

"First, I want to note that someone's ability to cite George Orwell is not a strong enough reason to stay in a relationship with them. You got that, Peter?"

"Noted."

She sighed again and rubbed more aggressively at the tear tracks drying on her cheeks.

"Would you believe the fight started with a proposal?"

Peter was usually more of a listener, but he could tell MJ needed him to contribute. Maybe she wasn't a natural conversation-hog either.

"Isn't proposing at somebody else's wedding, like, bad manners?"

"_Really_ bad," she agreed with such vehemence that he understood why she and Betty were good friends. "It's rude as fuck to take attention away from the bride and groom, but Brad's a self-centered shithead like that, so I probably should have seen this coming."

"That's the problem with the Brads of the world," Peter observed with sarcastic faux-wisdom. "You're so focused on how self-centered they are and how much of a shithead they're being that you forget the unpredictability factor. That's the killer."

MJ snorted.

"Right? Anyway, so I pulled him out here, because he started fucking whipping out that ring box while Betty and Ned were still dancing―" Peter shook his head in disgust. "―and while we were getting into it, I had this moment where I just stared at him and felt zero desire to keep talking, or hearing him talk. And, I guess, if I felt like that right after he tried to propose... I mean, that should be one of the emotional highlights of my life. Like, forget that his timing was shitty and selfish, I still should've been thrilled, on some level, that this guy I'd been with for the past two and a half years wanted to marry me. And I wasn't. I think that's why I started crying."

She breathed deeply and Peter was staggered that he'd heard someone exorcise their feelings so well and so wastelessly. He admired her. Abruptly, MJ laughed.

"So that was a lot to unload on a stranger."

"I'm not a stranger, I'm your friend's husband's best friend!" he joked. "And I'm glad you explained. Otherwise, my plan was to assume that you were crying for Brad, because he doesn't get to spend any more time with you."

"You know, I'm impressed that you picked that up so quickly."

"Well," Peter shrugged, referencing Ned's recent vows, "I've heard that sometimes _you just know_."

They laughed until the front doors opening (not Brad―they both turned to look) shoved a wave of chilly air into the hotel. Peter wished he had his jacket to give her. He felt a little unbalanced, accidentally pairing up with this stranger after actively running away from the potential for that same thing down the hall. Instead of wading in, testing the waters, he'd shot down into a sinkhole. That wasn't exactly what he'd been hoping to find either. Because he hadn't been hoping to find _anything_. Yet he really wanted to be around her; attraction wasn't something he'd closed himself off to.

"We should get out of this hallway," MJ suggested.

"Do you want to..." Peter jerked his thumb back towards the banquet hall. "...dance?" He winced. "Or is that a terrible thing to ask because, shithead or not, you were just almost engaged?"

She tilted her head side to side, considering.

"Pretty terrible. On a related note, do you want to come hang out in my room?"

His mouth fell open slowly and he straightened up. Saying 'yes' too fast... that would be another example of bad manners, wouldn't it? If she asked though, he'd be lying to say that wondering how the fabric of her dress would feel sliding through his hands as he removed it hadn't been taking up half his brain power since the second he saw her.

"We'll go back to the reception in a bit," MJ assured him. "I just need to take my shoes off and be blissfully alone for a few minutes."

"I'm flattered that you can already feel alone when I'm in a room with you," he said sarcastically, smiling to take the edge off. "This conversation is _way_ better for my ego than dancing with one of Ned's cousins."

She laughed, easy, and reached out to grab Peter's forearm. It shot a tingle through him probably even less appropriate than contemplating going back to MJ's room with her. Unconsciously, he pushed his tongue against the inside of his lip as he watched her mouth.

"Dude, they were talking about your thighs through the _whole_ ceremony. I was sitting in front of them."

"You probably started it," he teased, brushing a strand of hair away from her face like he was also a casual toucher. It was tough to tell whether she was blushing or just flushed from her argument.

"Nah, I was too busy looking at your arms. That jacket could only hide so much." Her gaze dropped pointedly to one of his biceps. With his arms crossed, his dress shirt strained.

They were joking around, right? People flirted at weddings. All people. Including determined bachelors and brand-new singletons.

"Look who's talking," Peter countered, sweeping his eyes down her silky dress. The hug and drape of it.

Harmless flirting. Totally harmless. MJ gave him a thorough once-over.

"So... yes or no?"

Her hotel room had only her things in it and he wondered how he would've felt to encounter the heavily ridiculed Brad's luggage.

"He left his bag in the car," MJ explained, tossing the key card onto a table with an elegant flick. She flung her small purse to land at the head of the bed on a pillow. "He didn't want us to stay overnight. Figured we could make the drive back into the city when things were winding down."

"At what time? Three in the morning? Not a great plan." Peter was puffing himself up every time he cut a slice off the absent Brad. He was aware of it, but he also couldn't stop himself.

She sat on the edge of the queen-size bed, then changed her mind, crouching down at the mini-fridge and extracting a teeny bottle. Peter stood by as she unscrewed and sniffed it.

"No," she gasped, quickly returning it to the fridge.

"You're ok, right?" he asked tentatively.

MJ sat back and turned her head to look at him.

"I wasn't going to drink myself into a stupor, I'm just curious. I like to explore my surroundings."

Not quite an answer, but whatever.

She stood and glanced at the blank screen of the TV.

"You want to watch something?"

"Uh, no, that's ok. We can just talk," Peter said. Talk about how people hooked up at weddings. Right.

"Talk." MJ nodded and sat beside him. "Sure. That's a good idea. I think we skipped some of the general stuff when I dove straight into my drama. We could cover something a little less personal."

"For sure."

He caught her looking at him from the corner of her eye, just like he was doing to her. In a second, they were kissing fiercely, his hands on her shoulder and the back of her neck, hers clutching the front of his shirt. They twisted towards each other and her far knee nudged his thigh.

"Are impulsive decisions ever right?" MJ wondered, eyes closed, as he nipped her lip and kissed messily over to her ear.

"Don't ask me that," Peter mumbled into her ear. His hand played with the strap of her dress, dragging it over her shoulder and back up. Suspending himself in that place of temptation.

"What would Brad think―"

"Don't ask me that either," he requested before she could finish the question.

He felt for her knee and tucked his fingers behind it, wrinkling the fabric of her dress between his warm hand and the hot place at the back of her knee. Such a little tug, he thought as they kissed again, to bring her right into his lap. Peter gripped the back of her neck and stroked his tongue into her mouth. MJ's head was practically lolling, she was so turned on. Ok, he could concede that this was something he missed during his careful state of singlehood. But it wouldn't have been like this with a Leeds cousin, hadn't been like this in Peter's last actual relationship (sorry, Liz) or his handful of Tinder nights.

This wasn't supposed to happen―his cock thickening in his black suit trousers, MJ's long fingers undoing the tiny buttons of his shirt―but it could. They'd collided while fleeing in two different directions and now, maybe, they could run parallel for a while. _If_...

"Actually," Peter continued, their noses bumping as he shook his head, "could you not say that name again?"

"I could do that."

His fingers flexed and she swung onto his lap, dress slipping and sliding under his hand. He pressed a palm to the small of her back until she lowered her hips to his, then, as soon as they touched, Peter grew restless and flipped them, hauling MJ up the bed on her back. Her heart was racing, he could see. Her hands were hungry as they roamed his chest where his shirt hung open. She shuffled her dress until she was able to bend her knees on either side of his hips, kicking her high heels to the floor. They (Peter and MJ) had probably damaged her braid.

Propped over her, Peter pushed the delicate straps from her shoulders, one at a time, while she watched him. He peeled the front of her loose dress down with the slight dampness of his palm, caressing along her sternum. No bra underneath. There was a zipper at the side that he hadn't noticed; she undid it for him.

He dipped his face to kiss the center of her chest, then lifted his head again, looking seriously into MJ's receptive, unswerving stare.

"I'm gonna fuck you so hard that you forget you ever even met that asshole. You realize that, right?"

Slowly, he felt her hook her feet securely behind his calves, neck lifting gracefully from the bed as she did so. Always watching his eyes.

"Works for me," MJ said. "Though that is going to make it a lot more difficult to feel like I'm alone in this hotel room."

She grinned and he dove into it, kissing her enthusiastically and rocking his hips into hers. Peter shoved his shiny black shoes off with the toes of his opposite feet while using his hands to wriggle the top of her dress down to her waist. With a tremulous breath he hoped wasn't the beginnings of regret, MJ helped him out of his dress shirt and tossed it unceremoniously aside. He didn't look away to see if the article even made it over the edge of the bed.

And that was as far as they got, the both of them topless, when MJ felt around for her clutch and extracted a condom that had been intended for another guy's erection. His excitement was momentarily quelled. As she passed it to him, chucking her purse away, Peter glanced at the wrapper before tearing it open. Good news: it wasn't some inferiority-complex-inducing jumbo size. He exhaled slowly through his nose in relief and gazed at the peaked nipples of her bare breasts as he unzipped himself, pushed his boxers out of the way, and rolled the condom on. MJ hiked the hem of her dress up her thighs, the entire swishy length now just a fold of fabric around her hips, shimmering softly in the yellow light of the hotel room.

Peter dug his nose beneath her jaw and felt between her thighs with an eager hand. The room was snugly still around them, the sound of his own breathing in his ears. MJ gave a little gasp and dropped her legs wider at his touch. Her underwear felt lacy and―more germane―wet. He groaned and hauled the lingerie down her legs, stretching and wrenching instead of patiently asking for her to lift her hips, unbend her knees.

His fingers returned to her, dipping into her wetness and rubbing it up over her clit until her thighs gave a tremble. He kissed gradually down her throat. Laying her hands on his shoulders, MJ ran them across to the back of his neck. Peter traced a teasing circle around her entrance with the tip of his middle finger and, abruptly, her hand was gripping his hair.

"This isn't a slow dance, Peter," she told him, chin tipped up to unconsciously mirror how she'd pulled his head back. Her other hand wove down and found Peter's wrist, forcing his finger inside her. "We aren't making memories."

He laughed, appreciating her bluntness, and raked a hand through his dishevelled hair the second she released it.

"I guess I just normally―"

"I don't care." MJ smiled. "Just be the hot Best Man and I'll be a friend of the bride, 'cause that's what it seems like we both need. If you can't do that, then get on your back and I'll do it for you."

Peter laughed again and bit at her neck―lightly, then harder as he felt her sink into the plush comforter they hadn't bothered to turn down. When she moaned and bucked slightly to get his finger (positioned by her) moving, Peter curled it inside her and kissed her mouth to swallow some of the sound that was making his blood so hot.

"No, you're definitely staying on your back," he muttered against her lips.

MJ just nodded lazily, eyes shut, when he added another finger and pumped them faster. Her grip twisted gently around his wrist and Peter's eyes nearly rolled back imagining the same motion on his dick. He didn't know her―not 'that well,' but _know her_, period―but he was sure it was exactly what she wanted him to imagine.

He watched her stretch a hand over her head and grasp the edge of the mattress, fingers sneaking between it and the headboard. Kissing her hard, Peter hooked his fingers into her twice more, then withdrew his hand (she moved hers to the back of his neck). Arousal smeared her thigh as he clutched it and nudged his cock against her entrance, pressing inside when the angle felt right.

A little while for him and, for her, the first time in years with a new partner. They both had something to get used to and they both started off gasping, quickly rearranging their limbs to hold each other closer as Peter sunk deeper. A quick squeeze from MJ's legs tangling around the back of his jerked him all the way inside her and she immediately bore down with her hips like she could pin him there from underneath. The forcefulness of it was hot. Liz had never been very... but no, they weren't bringing their exes into this. Not into this hotel room, not into this bed.

Peter wrapped his arm all the way around MJ, stretching beneath her back to grasp her ribcage with firm fingers. He resisted slipping his other hand into her hair because it would demolish whatever remained of the braid that suited her so well; instead, he braced his forearm on the bed and cupped her bare shoulder in his palm. The heat and friction of the two of them moving against each other was raising the scent of whatever MJ had massaged into her skin to make it so soft. He inhaled deeply, tracing his lips down to her collarbone to leave a lingering kiss. With his arms bound up by her body and his legs increasingly swayed by the guiding action of hers, Peter went to rapid work with his hips.

Panting and groaning, MJ was as collaborative as she was combative―dragging him in with her legs and rocking her hips fiercely in pursuit of pleasure―and he wasn't sure at all that she'd really surrendered, despite remaining on her back. But that wasn't really what he wanted, was it? Wedding hookups, by whatever definition of them existed, were supposed to be easy, and yet Peter wanted a second go-round. Wanted to see her lotion lined up with her hair products and her makeup by the sink in the en suite when he brushed his teeth.

He inhaled and gave his head a small shake. This wasn't his hotel room and MJ wasn't his girlfriend. She wasn't looking for that. _He_ wasn't looking for that. Ugh, he couldn't think about this anymore.

Peter struggled to find a good moment to change positions and ended up just flipping them while she continued to writhe. He thought it was reluctance to put too much space between their groins, but, on his back and tossing a curl of hair off his forehead, he was staggered when MJ progressed to torturously drawn-out rises and falls of her hips. Obviously unembarrassed to be suddenly astride a near-stranger, she'd pressed her palms to his chest for leverage as she eased herself up and down.

"Not a slow dance," he groaned, hips bucking pleadingly each time she withdrew. But it felt deliriously good and Peter smoothed his hands somewhat possessively up her thighs.

"What," she panted, tugging the pooling skirt of her dress out of the way as she rode him, "do you have to give a speech or something?"

Peter laughed, just once―it was all he could spare the oxygen for, huffing to thrust up into her.

"I do, actually. But Betty scheduled everything to the minute. The speeches don't start until nine."

"Lots of time," MJ decided, jerking forward and back on his lap, so incredibly tight around him after months of his fingers and palm.

"Mmm," Peter agreed. He slid his hands a little higher and started trying to intertwine their fingers.

She shook him off, returning her hands to his chest, and glanced briefly down and away.

"Not that we're going to take long."

"No."

What could he do but agree? He exhaled, chest falling beneath her hands, wanting to tumble MJ down on top of him. She gave him a look and he thought it might've been because he wasn't totally convincing (spending the night with her would be nice!) and he held her gaze until her eyes appeared panicked. _Too intense_, he told himself. Then Peter elbowed her wrists aside to collapse her onto his body, rolling them to land on top of her again.

"You've got good form," he joked, slamming his hips forward so he struck deep, making her mouth open in a silent scream, "but you just take too goddamn long."

"Show me how it's done then, Best Man," MJ shot back when she could get the words out.

With an eager grin, Peter pounded into her like he'd warned her he would. She didn't try to trade places, or even voice a request to do so, too busy sucking in air each time he drove forward. Keeping himself on his elbows, he groped her breasts. Pinching her nipples made MJ speak his name in a high whine―"_Peter_"― that exhilarated him into a faster pace with his hips. He slid easily in and out of her slick channel, beginning to tremble with the feeling.

Meeting his wild thrusts, MJ reached up again, planting her palm against the headboard. Peter had to move one hand off her chest just to stroke down the underside of her arm. Her mouth quirked up in an unfamiliar expression; he realized what he'd done tickled her. To distract himself from wanting things he couldn't, _shouldn't_, have, Peter dropped his mouth to the center of her chest. He kissed her sternum before tracing his tongue over to her nipple and sucking it into his mouth. She let out a small scream and clenched fleetingly around his dick.

"Can you get off like this?" he mumbled, barely lifting his mouth from her, hips hastening.

MJ just nodded rapidly and closed her eyes. Maybe Peter watched her expression a second too long, because the question of whether she was imagining that he was Brad right now entered his mind. He still moved his hips, but he was numb until her free hand suddenly gripped his hair (fair, for her to wreck his carefully gelled down hair after his actions had made a mess of her braid). He almost laughed in relief and lowered his head to bite her nipple. He'd only seen the jerk for a few seconds, but Peter remembered Brad's straight hair, shorter than his own. MJ could only be thinking of him, Peter, as her fingers loosened the curls he'd flattened with product to look more... what? Sophisticated or something, for the bridal party.

For these seconds, as her back arched, trapping his hand between them (not that he minded in the slightest), and MJ called out Peter's name, she'd forgotten. Like he'd promised her. Fulfilling that promise was so monumental in his mind as his thrusts turned sloppy and he lost himself in her, that he nearly repeated the thought aloud. Luckily, he managed to turn it into a gravelly grunt, delivering forceful final thrusts that shook her beneath him; MJ's arm had gone limp in her bliss, no longer bracing her against the headboard. Those arms folded around the back of his neck as he slowed to a stop and let himself―just for a minute―rest on top of her.

"My hair is totally fucked," she murmured against his forehead.

Peter laughed weakly and kissed MJ's neck, then, with a crease between his eyebrows, drew himself out of her.

"Not to mention my dress," she sighed as he stumbled a bit on jellified legs into the bathroom to toss the condom.

He fumbled with hitching his boxers and dress pants up and swung the door partly shut for a minute to splash cool water on his face before confronting his expression. Dazed. But would the guests―would Ned and Betty―suspect _sex_ dazed? His gaze shifted up to his hair. Oh right. Yeah, that was probably a giveaway. Peter gave fixing his hair a half-hearted attempt, then left the bathroom, stretching his arms back and his chest forward.

MJ's gaze was waiting for him. Probably not waiting for the proudly (if accidentally) displayed flex of his stomach and arms, but it seemed like it went over well; her mouth fell open. It had to be retaliation when she raised her hips from the mattress and pushed her bunched up dress down her legs to lie there totally nude. Then, she sat up, stood, and strode past him into the bathroom, wearing nothing more than a _I know exactly what I'm doing to you_ smirk. She shut the door and Peter had to mentally get a hold of himself so he wouldn't walk straight into it like a lovesick idiot and break his nose.

He found his shirt on the floor, looking like a used tissue―it was riddled with an impossible number of creases. Peter sighed and went to the hall closet where hotels always tucked the iron and ironing board. The wrinkles came out easily and he hung it on the back of the chair at the neat, untouched desk, pacing unhurriedly as he waited for MJ to emerge from the bathroom. She was probably trying to salvage her braid. No point in throwing his shirt on until they were ready to go. Assuming she'd want to head back at the same time. Shit, he was overthinking this again.

Peter caught sight of MJ's crumpled ball of an outfit as he turned and figured he might as well iron her dress while he had the stuff out. His gaze also fell on her lacy black underwear, which he did not approach, for fear of sneaking them into his pants pocket (she'd know―one look and she'd know). He assessed the fabric, letting it slip sweetly between his fingers, then laid it across the ironing board and draped a clean towel (also in the hall closet) on top to protect it from the iron.

Exiting the bathroom as casually as she'd entered it, MJ went first to the bed; she collected and stepped into her underwear. Which was not really dressed enough for Peter's dick not to care. His jaw tensed. The moment she spun towards him, the situation (_his_ situation) was diffused. She laughed.

"You're ironing?"

Peter shrugged, continuing to smooth the iron across the towel.

"You were right about your dress. It was pretty fucked and I wanted you to feel good walking back in there."

She appeared taken aback, but maybe in a good way, a surprised way, dropping her eyes to the floor and smiling to herself. When she glanced up again, she was trying to conceal the softened expression, rubbing a thumb over her eyebrow. Her hair looked good, he noticed. Not as tidy as it had been, but the escaped strands that waved around her face... they looked... well, then looked... Peter swallowed and quit staring.

"I steamed the dress at home and changed into it here," she offered, crossing her arms over her naked chest. With her wide stance, she looked way more at ease than he felt. "The material's kind of delicate, so you have to be caref―"

"I'm being careful," Peter assured her. "My aunt taught me to iron, like, a decade ago."

"Oh."

"You're surprised," he noted with a grin.

He watched her back up and sit on the end of the bed.

"I've never had a man iron my clothes." She snorted. "I would've been so shocked if Brad had ever..." MJ's expression fell and her eyes flicked to his. "Is it ok if I say his name?"

Peter gave an awkward shrug and shifted the dress to iron the last foot or so. Too awkward. She sighed heavily.

"Peter, we should talk."

"Hey," he interrupted in a cheerful tone, "I'm just the Best Man and you're a friend of the bride."

"It's too soon." MJ laughed humourlessly. "It's _way_ too soon. Neither of us needs... this."

Which instantly made him feel like he needed this. Because he'd forgotten everything with one glimpse of the woman in the dress like melted copper.

"I think this is just about done," Peter said, shamelessly trying to divert her from speaking any harsher truths by drawing attention back to the dress. He set the iron aside, unplugged it, whisked away the towel. Everything was fine.

"I don't mean this to be condescending," she said, gently and absolutely not distracted, "but you might not know what it's like to end a serious relationship. I don't regret what you and I just did, but I know that, after ending things with Brad, having time to be by myself is _vital_, Peter. I don't want you to feel―"

"I was engaged."

The room was quiet, apart from the faint hiss of the cooling iron.

"Yeah," Peter confirmed, though she hadn't said anything. "I was engaged to my last serious girlfriend. Maybe you know Liz Allan?" He met her eye and MJ didn't say anything. "She's friends with Betty too. Obviously RSVPed 'no' to this particular occasion. It's been more than a year since we were together, but... There were a lot of reasons."

"For me and Brad too." She sighed and he felt like it had come from his own lungs, releasing some tension. "Though it always feels like just one in the moment you break up."

He nodded and glanced at the dress, then at her. MJ stood and walked over to him. Peter held her dress out to her, zipping it up along her side with intimate care as she got the straps to lie where she wanted them.

"You did an incredible job," she said, inspecting the length of fabric once again draping her body. "Thank you." The strength of his desire to tell her she deserved to be taken care of ached in his chest. "Come here," MJ insisted. Peter was powerless.

With a wry smile, she lifted her hands to his hair, combing the sides between her fingers and pushing the front off his forehead.

"That's better."

He chuckled.

"Well, it couldn't get any worse."

They went back to the reception together, MJ holding the door open for him with an, "After you, Best Man." She looked absolutely stunning and, if there were any Leeds cousins around, Peter didn't notice them.

The two of them danced once or twice, then more when the less committed wedding guests headed to bed. Somehow, Peter and MJ weren't among them and, with fewer partners in the room and on the floor, it was easy to drift together over and over. Eventually, they just stayed that way, exchanging calm smiles with Betty and Ned until the happy couple left too.

"I didn't mean never," MJ whispered when it was just them in the empty banquet hall.

The DJ was off the clock and they'd switched over to music from their combined playlists. Heart thudding, Peter held her closer.

"I know. I can wait." After a minute, he added, "I'm pretty sure you're what I was waiting for anyway."

MJ leaned her head into his as he swayed them.

"You wanna go back to my room? We might as well sleep together in the less exciting sense and I'll count today as one big exception."

Peter grinned, leaning into her in turn and settling in for a little while longer.

"Come on, MJ. Give me one more slow dance."


End file.
